“Beatrix,” he exclaimed, when minutes of angry silence had elapsed, “I have signed away my honour to return to you to-night. God help me if these things I hear are true. Let us have no misunderstanding. They say that you left Wörth with Brandon North. Is that a lie?”
“It is no lie. I left there with our friend—with your friend. They burned our house, and there was no one in Wörth to help me. Brandon found an Englishman who drove me to Strasburg. Was that a crime against your honour?”
She spoke in a voice grown hard and satirical. He bit his lips and pursued the question.
“There can be no friendship in war,” he said quietly; “this man has chosen to be the enemy of France. He is, therefore, my enemy, and should have been yours. Admitting that danger led you to forget these things—and I see the possibility of that—how came it that you met him in Strasburg and went to his house there?”
“I went that he might carry my letter to you. I knew that he had come here out of pure friendship to me. There was no news of you except the news that he brought into Strasburg. Cannot you understand that, Edmond? When he was wounded, my honour and gratitude compelled me to befriend him. Would you have done less, had you been here? You know that you would not—”
“We are not discussing my actions but your own, Beatrix. If I had gone to a woman’s house, a Frenchwoman’s, under such circumstances as you went to the house of Brandon North, I should have known beforehand what you would think of me. Do you not see that you have dishonoured me in the eyes of every man who hears of these things? And are you child enough to believe that the Englishman came to Strasburg simply with the desire to serve you? My God, Beatrix, are you child enough to believe that?”
She looked up at him defiantly.
“Brandon is an Englishman,” she said. “He does not lie as your friends lie. I know that he came here to serve me. I am glad that my friends saved him to-night. If your love of me is such a little thing that every word of slander can influence it, believe what you will. I have told you my story. Do not think that I shall appeal to you to accept it, Edmond.”
He began to walk up and down the room restlessly. In the intervals of silence the thunder of the German cannon could be heard as a dreadful tocsin of the night. The old house quivered at every savage discharge.
“Your friend is an Englishman,” he said, deliberating his words. “Your heart was never in France nor for me, Beatrix. From the first day you spoke of England and not of my country. The army I serve has meant nothing to you. My honour was in your keeping, and you sold it to this man—because he was your fellow country-man. If it had been otherwise, you would have died in our home at Wörth before a German bivouac should have protected you. I cannot conceal these things from myself. God knows it was for love of you, to hear your voice again, that I gave my word and came back to this house ashamed to show my face to men. You have rewarded me by harbouring the enemies of France and saving them from justice. I can never forgive that, Beatrix. There must be no more talk of love between us. We have both made a mistake—let it begin and end with that, and God help me to deal with the man who has made my home desolate.”